


Hurt

by tinycam



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Hanamaki works for the yakuza, Light Angst, M/M, Matsukawa takes care of him, Organized Crime AU, Yakuza AU, but like a chill angst, outlaw au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 20:12:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13888290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinycam/pseuds/tinycam
Summary: It wasn't the first time he had gotten home to this.But he had a feeling it'd be the last.





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> I might or might not make this into an actual chapter fic. Comment below if you'd read more of this AU.
> 
> Also side note, wrote this while listening to this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XCfRIUOyMNQ

Matsukawa turns the key slowly, the bag of groceries rustling on his arm as he shoves the door open with his shoulder, light streaming into the apartment.

Not for the first time, a body rests, slumped in an uncomfortable looking position, at the end of the darkened hallway; the figure looks up casually, blood already crusted over a horribly swollen, busted lip. By the state of his tattered shirt and the grime covering his pants, the bruised face of the individual would be the least of his problems.

“You look like shit,” he flips the light switch, pushing the door shut with his foot as he comes in. Takes the time to place his bag of groceries at the kitchen counter before actually attending to his ‘guest’, to seem less concerned than he actually is.

He briefly wonders if he would ever become accustomed to his friend’s broken appearance, or even if he should be glad that, regardless of his reckless ‘job’ he still had the sense to come to Matsukawa when his body reached its limit.

Would the Hanamaki of five years ago recognize the man who sat against the wall, clutching at his side, with blood caking the side of his extravagant pink hair?

A dry chuckle echoes after his words, followed by a sharp intake of breath, “Is that the way to greet your best friend?” His voice is overly raspy, lacking its usual teasing lilt.

And he knows by this rare tone of voice, that he’s in more pain than he’s letting on.

Matsukawa doesn’t even look back at him, his body moving automatically to get the first aid kit he bought solely for Takahiro’s escapades.

“Can you even walk?” He utters after a few minutes of silence, in which he has neatly separated all the materials he’ll need. The soft shuffling of his companion’s clumsy movements answers his questions as the pink haired man slowly makes his way to the kitchen and with some difficulty hops onto the counter. “Shirt,” he reminds him dryly, and despite his probably grievous injuries the asshole still smirks.

“Now, Mattsun, I don’t think this is quite the time to get naughty.”

When the statement isn’t dignified with an answer Hanamaki’s smirk drops, and as instructed, pulls his shirt over his head, with as much difficulty as his small trek to the kitchen counter. Matsukawa’s eyes hold none of the humor that is commonly found there.

He works in silence. The wounds are deeper than ever, or maybe they simply look that way now that they’re no longer surrounded by pristine skin, but by elders of their brethren in the shape of nasty scars and week-old bruises. The apartment is wholly silent except for the occasional hisses that come from his companion whenever his hands press against an especially deep cut.

They’ve been around each other for too long to mistake this moment as a comforting one. The air that envelops them is stagnant with tension; for the first time in possibly years, the other’s presence does nothing to alleviate the stress hidden behind stoic faces.

Matsukawa is nearly finished when he can no longer hold it in.

“You should stop this.”

“Huh?” Whether he is caught off guard by the rare solemnness in his voice or by the lightheadedness his amount of blood loss surely caused, is unclear.

“I can’t keep doing this.”

“Alright, if you want me to stop coming to you like this I won’t bother you,” he looks up at the ceiling, and Matsukawa wonders what he’s looking at, which is completely invisible to him, beyond the cracks on the drywall. “We’ve got a doctor of sorts anyways, but he for sure won’t be as gentle and caring as you,” he looks back down, shooting him a crooked grin, clearly meant to ease some of the tension in the room.

It doesn’t last; seeing that the gesture is not being mirrored his face doesn’t take long to morph back into a state of calculated indifference.

“You’re not understanding me. I want you to stop this whole thing, Makki. You can’t keep willingly breaking yourself and hoping someone will put you back together. I won’t allow it.”

“And what exactly will you do if I refuse, huh, Matsukawa?”

The cold tone feels like ice freezing the blood in his veins, an uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach. The knowledge that the one person he cares most for is getting further and further away from him making him feel a terror he never knew one could feel after leaving childhood fears behind.

“I’ll report you to the cops, asshole, better alive in jail than bleeding out in some fucking dark alley!” He can hear panic in his voice, mixed in with his apparent wrath, but he has long ago passed the point of caring.

Hanamaki’s expression hardens. To his merit, for a man who could barely move mere minutes ago, he moves remarkably fast. The speed at which his hand reaches for something at his back is enough that Matsukawa is completely ignorant to what he’s doing until he feels cold metal against his skin.

Matsukawa had never thought the barrel of a gun would be directly pressed against his forehead, and much less that it’d be his oldest friend—more than a friend, really—whose finger held his entire life, as he softly tapped against the trigger in a form of practiced intimidation.

And in this impossible situation, he felt irrationally calm.

“You’re not going to shoot me.”

Hanamaki clicked his tongue in annoyance, his hand not shaking in the slightest. Gun not budging. “And you’re not going to call the cops on me.”

“Guess we’re at a stalemate, huh.” Matsukawa’s voice does not soften, he can see the silver steel of the deadly weapon reflected in the eyes of the man in front of him.

After a couple minutes of the world’s most overstrung staring contest the gun slides back, probably leaving an outline on his skin, as Hanamaki unceremoniously shoved the gun back into its original place.

It took less than a minute for Matsukawa to realize that the gun’s safety had never been clicked off.

“I’m going to sleep, these aren’t going to heal without some rest.” Hanamaki lightly scratches at his pink hair, hopping off the counter and walking past Matsukawa.

“Don’t stain the shee—“

“I’m taking the couch tonight,” it’s an unexpectedly sharp response.

And it leaves Issei thinking that there’s a very high probability that when he wakes up tomorrow it’ll be to a very cold, empty apartment.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention I wrote this on whatsapp to my best friend who lives in another country at 1 am? Because I did.  
> Sned help.


End file.
